


love with your bloodied mouth

by OldShrewsburyian



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Le Morte d'Arthur - Thomas Malory
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dialogue Light, F/M, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Infertility, Introspection, Light Angst, Married Couple, Medieval Medicine, One Shot, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Political Alliances, Scars, Undressing, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:46:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25276381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: This fic covers Books III-V ofLe Morte d'Arthurfrom Guinevere's perspective, and was written for the recipient's prompt on a line of Federico García Lorca: "paint me a heaven of love with your bloodied mouth."
Relationships: Guinevere/Arthur Pendragon
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	love with your bloodied mouth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sleeepyinseattle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeepyinseattle/gifts).



Arthur’s coming is like a miracle, but it does not feel like a destiny. She is, frankly, surprised by it. She had not expected him to come to the aid of Cameliard simply because, after much deliberation and over many objections, he was crowned High King. Guinevere knows that Cameliard is strong like many other kingdoms, and vulnerable like many other kingdoms. She also knows that she herself is an unusual vulnerability. _Leodegrance, the king of Cameliard / Had one fair daughter, and none other child._ It is a mocking little rhyme.

King Rience’s armies come for Cameliard itself, for the castle and the stronghold. (“At least,” says her father, weary and trying to smile, “they won’t have had time to pillage very much.”) Guinevere prepares the castle. It is her duty, and she is very good at it. The seneschal, cook, and cellarer accept her as something between an ally and a commander-at-arms, and considering that they’ve all known her since she was toddling behind her nurse’s skirts, she thinks this is very gracious of them. Guinevere makes sure that there is space for people to be lodged, even if there are not quite enough rooms. She inspects the stockpiles — once. The firewood and pitch, arrows and bandages, make her nervous and melancholy. She makes more bandages. She waits.

The key to a battle, Guinevere knows, is timing. She knows that her father’s goal is to earn time, earn hope, by sallying out in force before Rience’s forces are settled in, their numbers complete, their engines built. She does up the buckles of his armor, and thinks that he looks older in battle dress than in his ordinary robes. She kisses his cheek, and knows it may be for the last time.

Despite herself, she watches. Leodegrance’s forces cannot hope to succeed alone, and this they know. But if they do enough — if they do enough, the citadel itself might hold long enough for Guinevere to bargain. She shivers. And after the first three hours of battle, she stops watching. This changes when the noise does. She rises from the fireplace, and goes cautiously to the window.

At first, she is shocked by the visibility of the man on the grey horse. Then she realizes that it is the point for him to be a target: a rangy man on a massive beast, and his sword like a torch before him. Guinevere watches, feeling faintly sick, until the tide of battle turns, with a sound like the going out of the sea.

She performs her next tasks in a daze. She had not expected to have to prepare to welcome the wounded. She had expected — at best — a long and bitter siege. The seneschal comes running to meet her, and tells her, with tears in his eyes, that the laundresses are boiling water. Guinevere, who used to call him “uncle,” yearns to throw herself into his arms. Instead, she praises his work, and extends her hand; he kisses it. Guinevere takes a deep breath, and goes to talk to the cook. Not tonight, but soon, there must be a celebratory feast: they must show the High King that they are in his debt, and show the rest of the world that they are his allies.

She knows that her father will come to her himself, to have his wounds dressed far from the hall that will be packed with too many men. Guinevere has hot water brought, and cool wine; she sends for rosemary, honey, and yarrow. The king knocks, and she stands to greet him.

“Guinevere,” says her father. She looks him over quickly; he is tired, and moves stiffly, but he does not seem to be in much pain. “May our guest be assured of your care as well?”

“Of course, lord,” says Guinevere, because she knows that it is a question that is not a question, a polite way of phrasing her duty, asking for her help in diplomacy. She looks over her father’s shoulder, and sees no one. She raises her eyebrows, and Leodegrance, following her gaze, seems to share her surprise.

“Arthur!” he calls, and adds as an afterthought: “My lord king!” 

It is some moments before he ducks under the lintel; Guinevere calculates that he must have been some distance down the hall. She is sure that her father had offered her services. Arthur must have accepted, if only to be polite, to let Leodegrance be a king in his own stronghold. But he stayed far enough off that, if he could not have avoided hearing any protest she might have made, he could have pretended not to hear them. Guinevere finds herself amused.

“Sit down, sir knight,” she says, and nods towards the fireplace. Leaving him to his squire — wherever the boy is — she turns to her father.

“Our guest’s hurts are greater,” says Leodegrance, the merest shade of reproof in his voice. “Jocelyn can unlace my armor, and then you can scold me for getting myself battered like an old quintain.”

“Very well.” Guinevere is suddenly giddy with relief. “You’ll at least let me clean your face; you’re as dirty as an urchin.” This she does, while the page starts on Leodegrance’s buckles. She kisses her father’s forehead lightly, because she can. 

When she turns to Arthur, he has already taken off his gauntlets, begun work on his vambraces. Guinevere kneels to undo the greaves. She tries not to think about the quantity of blood that is on them. She tries to think about the families in the courtyard who, now, will be able to return to their homes. When she looks up, she finds his grey eyes very intent on her. Guinevere blushes, and works in silence.

* * *

It is a highly successful diplomatic visit. But when, some months later, the messengers come from Camelot, she is still surprised. Merlin speaks with her father, but Guinevere still feels, somehow, that he is watching her when he tells them that Arthur wants her as a wife. Naturally, it is a great boon to Cameliard (and, Guinevere reflects with some satisfaction, it will spite the singers of mocking rhymes.) The business is concluded very quickly. She is given a hundred knights as a dowry, and she leaves her home, her father, the seneschal, the cook, and her familiar duties.

Arthur comes to meet her. They meet on a hill, with the city of London below them, and golden grasses around their horses’ legs. The apparel of the hundred knights glows in the evening sun. Arthur leans down from the enormous grey beast — not just a charger, then, but a favorite — and takes her hands in his. Guinevere thinks: _I had forgotten how large his hands were_ , and then: _a soldier’s hands_ , and then: _strange, that a soldier’s hands should be so gentle_.

“Lady,” says Arthur, “you are very welcome to me, for I have loved you long. Nothing,” says Arthur, “could give me more joy than your coming.” Guinevere finds herself believing him.

By the end of their wedding festivities, Guinevere is trying to keep herself from hoping too much. She has always known that what she was allowed to do, and what she was required to do, would depend very much on the man she married. And Arthur, whose calloused hands are gentle, treats her as a partner. She is given authority to pass judgment on a knight of the king’s blood. She is given a voice in the court. Guinevere allows herself to hope.

Of course, it cannot last. Five kings make war against Arthur, and she follows him into the field because he asks her to do so. Arthur says that he will be the braver for her sake. He says that he hates the idea of being parted from her. He says he will keep her safe. And Guinevere finds herself believing him.

What happens is betrayal. A wounded knight comes panting into the king’s tent with the news, and Guinevere can see the shock in his face when he finds Arthur in bed with a woman, the greater shock when he realizes that the woman he’s staring at is the queen. Guinevere grips Arthur’s hand under the sheets. The only thing to do is to flee, and Arthur’s face is white and grim in the moonlight.

“If they take you,” he says, “they will kill you.”

Guinevere, despite everything, smiles as she puts her arms around his neck. “You’ve never lied to me, have you?”

“Never. The water is dangerous; you can take your peril in crossing or remaining.”

Guinevere finds herself on the verge of tears. She wishes there were time to thank him, to tell him that she knows that he is a good man, to tell him that she does not blame him, and does not resent him. She thinks they could have had a good life together. “I’d rather drown than be killed,” she says, and kisses him.

When she draws back at last, his eyes are enormous, and his face is heartbreakingly open to her. To her own astonishment, Guinevere finds the words _I love you_ on her lips. She bites them back. What she says is: “God guard you. I’ll be with the nuns. Send for me.” He holds onto her hand as long as he can.

Remarkably, two days later, he does send for her. The smell of blood is still in the air when she reaches the site of the battle; but Guinevere puts her heels to her palfrey, and Arthur lifts her down into his arms.

There are more treacheries, later on. Arthur leaves the court to go hunting, and is absent for weeks. The rest of the company returns, and they wait for a challenge that does not come, or for the news they all dread. And Guinevere reigns in his absence. She is a little surprised that no one questions her right or her ability to do so. She shows no fear. She treats Arthur’s homecoming as an inevitability, merely delayed by some mischance. When he does return, he is pale and thin, and when he sees her, his face is radiant. To his assembled nobles he says merely that has sojourned at a castle to correct its bad customs, and at an abbey to heal him of his wounds. That night, he tells her of imprisonment, and of cruel bargains, and crueler betrayal. She runs her hands over his fresh scars, and he falls asleep in her arms.

When his sister tries to kill him for the third time, Guinevere finds herself grudgingly impressed. And after that, for almost two years, there is peace. It is not a perfect peace, of course. Gawain, on whom she laid a charge at their wedding feast, leaves the court in anger. And season follows season, feast follows feast, and Guinevere waits in vain for a sign that she is with child. She never finds reproach in Arthur’s eyes; she wishes this didn’t make her feel so guilty.

* * *

At the new year’s feast, the Romans come, demanding their tribute. Guinevere, enthroned beside Arthur, knows it is a matter of deadly seriousness, and yet has to suppress a smile. The twelve men with their olive branches, invoking Julius Caesar, gravely asserting their lordship of the world, seem like an anachronism. Arthur, of course, hears them courteously, guarantees them safe lodging, and takes council. And only then does he demand homage from Rome’s emperor in turn. Guinevere, watching his servants heap gifts on the nonplussed envoys, holds back laughter. Arthur looks over at her, and catches her eye, and winks.

They have a month together before the parliament at York. Guinevere sets herself to memorize his body; she knows it may be the last chance she has to do so. Arthur is far too perceptive to ask her if anything is wrong. What he does say, one night when they are both lying awake, is:

“I was thinking of naming Constantine as my heir. Of Cornwall, you know — Cador’s son.”

Guinevere swallows hard. She knows she does not have to hide her tears from him, but it is hard not to be ashamed of them. “I think that’s wise,” she says.

“Guinevere,” he says, running a hand down her side, “you know I don’t… You know I love you.”

“Yes,” whispers Guinevere, and he wipes away her tears.

Another night, Arthur says: “If I don’t come back…”

Guinevere’s response is to turn over, and cover his body with hers. “What? What if you don’t come back?” Her voice sounds hard in her own ears.

“I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

She laughs harshly, and kisses him harshly, biting his lip, pulling away when he deepens the kiss. “I shall join a nunnery,” she says. “Or I shall marry a very devoted knight who treats me with the respect I deserve as a widowed queen. Lancelot, perhaps.” She manages half a smile, and leans down to twine her fingers with his. “But I do not want to make a life without you.”

Officially, Arthur divides the rule of the realm between his appointed heir and a trusted counsellor. He tells them both to listen to her. The army assembles in the city that used to be a city of legions, and he mounts his grey horse at the head of it. For the first time in her life, Guinevere faints.

The campaign lasts almost two years. At first, Arthur sends her his own letters: about a giant, and about how angry he was about the burning of towns. Gawain, unsurprisingly, cuts off a man’s head in a fit of temper. Another letter comes stained with blood and honey and oil, and Arthur apologizes for the stains: he’s been tending Gawain’s wounds. _Of course he has_ , thinks Guinevere. By that time, she knows she is not with child. 

The letters give way to terse reports of battles, that follow Arthur and his hosts from Troyes to Paris, and from Paris slowly, via sieges, into Germany and Italy. She receives a report that Arthur has killed Lucius, and this, without a supplementary letter, worries her. But the reports follow steadily, and nowhere do they mention the king suffering from his wounds. Arthur writes her again from Urbino, which he is besieging. He says only that there have been too many dead, and that he misses her sorely, and that he is almost selfish enough to wish he had asked her to come with him. Guinevere smiles as she folds up the letter.

After that, there is a long spell of reports again: Milan, Pavia, Spoleto, Viterbo. The reports write not only of cities and sieges, but also of other letters, sent to the senators who will not yield. Guinevere keeps Christmas at Camelot, and waits in vain to see wonders, and sits up late at her window wrapped in furs, and drinking wine, and wondering where Arthur is. Only later does the report come of his Christmas coronation. Remembering how he shared her amusement at the envoys’ discomfiture, Guinevere wonders what he thinks of becoming Roman emperor himself. But surely a Roman emperor who fought his way to the capital from Eboracum in Britannia is not an anachronism, but a legend.

Reports follow the army’s progress homewards, and when Arthur docks at Sandwich, Guinevere is there to meet him. Her recognition of him is instantaneous: he stands tall and loose-limbed on the deck of the ship, his fair hair burnt still lighter by the sun. _Oh yes_ , thinks Guinevere, and only then does she see the scar. It’s an ugly thing. Guinevere, who has been around warriors all her life, knows it to be the result of a blow that was meant to kill. It marks the nose, slices deep into one cheek. Guinevere’s stomach turns over. Wouldn’t Arthur have told her if it had affected his ability to talk? to eat? Had he meant to spare her worry? He disembarks from the ship’s boat and his step, on land, is a trifle unsteady. But his eyes seek hers; and he holds out his arms.

Guinevere knows what is expected of her, and she does not run. She makes a very stately royal progress, and takes both his hands in both hers. “My lord,” she says aloud, “I have great joy of your returning.”

“As have I,” says Arthur, his voice strong, “to be once more in England and among my subjects.” This political duty done, Arthur grins a crooked grin, and tucks Guinevere’s arm through his. “My queen,” he says, “I would fain be received of you.”

“Lodging,” she replies demurely, “is prepared.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demands, panting into his mouth, when the doors are shut behind them. 

He makes a sound that might be one of pain. “Couldn’t — sit up to write, at first.” She thwacks him in the shoulder, and he reaches to lift her with both hands. Guinevere wraps her legs around his waist. “Gawain would have made a drama of it.”

“Mmmm,” says Guinevere, working impatiently at whatever fastenings she can reach. “What happened?”

Arthur raises his head from licking a stripe down her collarbone, and considers her and the question for several moments. “Now?”

Guinevere puts her lips against the scar tissue, feeling its unfamiliar texture. “Now.”

“The battle was going on too long,” says Arthur, rather pointedly, depositing her on the bed. 

“Mm,” says Guinevere, and pulls off her hood and cap before shaking her hair free. Arthur, gratifyingly, stares. “You were saying?”

He drops his tunic on the floor, and works his shoes off unceremoniously. “Giants,” says Arthur heavily, and climbs onto the bed. Obligingly, Guinevere reaches for his laces. “He had giants.” She leans up, and he kisses her as though he had been lightheaded with the lack of her. “Most of a day fighting long odds. One crisis after another.” Guinevere raises an eyebrow at him. “Lucius… fighting with his own hands,” says Arthur breathlessly, pushing her skirts out of the way, making sure she’s comfortable. “So I went after him.”

Guinevere rests her heels against the small of his back. “Did you?” Arthur closes his eyes. “I know you did,” she says gently, “it’s all right.” He is breathing quickly, and when he looks at her again, she wonders if he’s afraid she’ll disappear. 

“We fought,” says Arthur simply, and relaxes. “He tried to cut my nose off, I think. Missed my tongue, luckily. Looks worse than it is.”

Guinevere laughs, because he can say such things earnestly at such a time. “Kiss me,” she says. “Kiss me.” And he does, with her hand resting lightly against the scar, her tongue exploring mended flesh and bone. Guinevere wonders if this is what love tastes like, or a miracle, or destiny.

**Author's Note:**

> The "mocking little rhyme" at the beginning is taken from Tennyson. Elements of the relationship between Guinevere and Leodegrance are inspired by Blanche Winder's retelling, which was my first. (What can I say? I was 5, and imprinted on it.)


End file.
